I am Pimpu [Writer's contest 2]

It’s your sister’s wedding. Hurrayyy! Yipee! Yay! Time to take a selfie.

No, wait! Rewind to two hours before selfie.

You wake and stretch. It is going to be a good day. You can bet your life on it. Your older sister who you have christened ‘Aunty Bolaji’ is getting married to her beau of six years.  Dude travelled out of the country for some two years of the six to study for a degree with a complex name. That doesn’t even bother you. It didn’t, rather; it’s all in the past now.

But your mum, on other hand…

‘If he meets somebody else nko?’

‘Mummy, he will look the other way.’

‘Ahh…he is a man o.  Doesn’t he have kinkini between his legs?’

‘He has self-control.’

‘Ehh-ehh… What if he finds a good job and decides not to come back?’

‘Mummy, he doesn’t want to die.’…

This was how your mum and your sister bickered over the issue, your sister always jumping at her bobo’s defense. Luckily, he did not put her to shame.  He returned with a rock and slipped it somewhere between her fingers. Since then, no one has slept well, many thanks to her incessant yapping about dreamy wedding plans.

You sigh as you remember you are her maid of honor. You don’t feel anything about that; not joy, not anger, not even indifference. Let the wedding just begin already.

It’s on that thought that you spot it in the mirror, staring pointedly at you with its single white eye. It’s an evil pimple! Right at the middle of your forehead.

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! That’s all you begin to rattle. You start looking everywhere for that special cream you purchased at Oyingbo. The seller claimed it could murder pimples in a matter of minutes. You haven’t tried it until now.

You find it and apply a generous amount on the spot. Now you’re bothered, the pimple might just ruin your entire day. Oh no, your life is over.

It’s three hours into the wedding. You are clad in your beautiful purple maid-of-honor dress, seated immaculately behind your sister at the church. The preacher is saying something about young ladies of nowadays who cannot pound yam for their husbands because they fix their nails. He exclaims in Yoruba that it is an abomination and you wonder where it is written in the bible. There is a mild protest in the congregation by the ladies, and on hearing it, he skillfully changes the subject. You catch your mother dozing in the distance, but today, you’re too busy to laugh. Busy with the round shiny mound on your forehead. Why hasn’t it gone away? May God punish that drug peddler and his fake pimple cream in Jesus name, you cuss. Then you remember you’re cussing in the house of God and quickly, you do the sign of the cross.

Service is now over. It’s time to take pictures. No. You can’t take pictures with this thing on your forehead. You want to run and hide, but one aunty whose name you can’t remember keeps calling for the chief bridesmaid. You end up taking seventeen photos. You counted. And you had a scowl on all through. You could almost swear you heard the pimple snicker.

The reception commences shortly afterwards. All your hopes of nailing a boyfriend out of one of the handsome groomsmen have so far been futile. You force on a smile but the slightest thought of the package on your face turns the smile around. What is more annoying is how your sister keeps strutting in and out of rhythm as the band plays. Aunty Bolaji dances like a turkey doing the tango in heels. You wonder why she would embarrass you so, but it would seem like no one else is bothered by that. You scowl again. The pimple scowls back in response.

It’s nightfall. You sit before your bedside mirror after washing all the makeup off. The wedding is finally over, phew! Aunty Bolaji must be in her husband’s arms already, eating the forbidden fruit. You didn’t come up with that; Mum did. You smile at the thought but that pimple doesn’t smile back. It just shines its light pointedly at you as if to mock you. As if to say ‘Hey there, I’m Pimpu. I had a great time ruining your day.’ You can’t take the humiliation anymore. You fling open your wardrobe and pull out a packet of blades. You pick out one blade from the lot. Everything is happening so fast you barely have time to think. You face the mirror and swipe that blade briskly across that pimple. It’s the sharp pain that comes first. Then blood. Lots and lots of it. You hope the evil pimple dies and never resurrects.

NAME: Ife Olujuyigbe